


Not everything is as it seems

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Fourth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: Both Harry and Draco are miserable at the Yule Ball until they bump into each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. I wrote this in November 2016 but never got around to posting it.

Winter’s chill swept into the Great Hall each time someone rounded the corner.  The twinkling tree lights coaxing the sun into rising.

 

Harry was sitting in the Great Hall, watching Ron shove food in his mouth when he received a package.

 

He stared at the brown paper quizzically, wondering who could have sent him a parcel.  He picked up the black embossed card, immediately recognizing the silver scrawl.

 

_‘Harry, my boy --_

 

_I’m not entirely convinced you have dress robes for the Yule Ball, so I took the liberty of choosing some for you.  They should fit.  Your mother and father were quite the pair, all those years ago.  See you at Christmas._

 

_Sirius’_

 

He smiled as he began to unwrap the package, running his fingers along the soft fabric of his clothes, careful to avoid wrinkles.  The ivory button down nearly sparkled against the inky black of his tuxedo.

 

Maybe the ball wouldn’t be so dreadful, after all.  Though, as he gaped at Ron’s dress robes, stifling laughter, he could never be too sure.

 

**\---**

 

After his disastrous attempt at asking Cho Chang to accompany him to the ball -- all awkward pauses, mumbles and shifty eyes, he decided to ask Parvati Patil.  She seemed nice enough, and she had a sister, which meant that he and Ron would both have dates.

 

Turns out, Harry was a horrible dancer.  He managed to step on Parvati’s toes at least twice, the first time coming when she instructed him to _‘take her waist’,_ to which he bit his tongue so hard that he tasted blood, before he stared at her, gaping and wide-eyed, a much-louder-than-necessary _‘what’_ tumbling from his lips.

 

That spectacular turn of events left he and Ron at a corner table to sulk for the rest of the evening.  Harry couldn’t bear to watch Ron scowl and make faces at Viktor when he wasn’t looking any longer, so he swiftly exited the Great Hall and snuck out into the snow-covered courtyard.

 

Finally, he could breathe.  The chill of the air seized his lungs, burning them deep, leaving charred marks against the organ’s flesh.  Harry’s fingers were beginning to numb when he heard the distinctive airy voice behind him.

 

“You miserable yet, Potter?”

 

Harry scoffed, making no attempt to respond.

 

Draco stepped quietly across the snow covered ground, almost as if he was floating towards Harry -- all smooth lines and grace.  Harry figured it must’ve been a pureblood thing.

 

“Pansy won’t leave me be,” Draco muttered, exasperated tones punctuating his words.  “Bloody hell, it’s as if she can’t take a hint.”

 

Harry arched his brows at that, finally looking at Draco.  Exhaustion etched itself underneath his eyes, his perfectly posh facade slipping with each passing minute.  His eyes were so gray -- they sparkled in the dim light of evening -- Harry found that, if he wished, he could easily get lost in them.

 

“Not as miserable as you, it seems,” Harry confessed.  “This isn’t what I thought it’d be.”

 

The admission surprised Draco.

 

“What did you think a Yule Ball was, Potter?”

 

“I …” Harry began, embarrassed, “didn’t know.”

 

Draco’s eyes softened.  There was something about Potter’s vulnerability that pulled the invisible twine around his heart, reminding him that he did, in fact, have one.  He changed the subject, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

“Do you have your invisibility cloak, Potter?”

 

That wasn’t what he was expecting.

 

“Errr -- Mmm -- Yeah.  Upstairs.  Why?”

 

Draco spun on his heels, rocking backward a smidge before regaining his balance, fully facing Harry now.

 

“Go get it.  Meet me back here in ten minutes.”

 

Before Harry could protest, Draco was gone.

 

**\---**

 

While awaiting Draco’s return, Harry discovered that he truly was complete rubbish at warming charms.  He attempted to warm his hands best he could, cupping his palms and blowing the warm saliva-soaked air from his mouth into his palms.

 

“Let’s have some real fun, shall we?”  Draco drawled, his voice low, warm, dangerous -- the words settling against the pale skin on the back of Harry’s neck.

 

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin from surprise and, well, something else.  “Jesus, Malfoy -- are you drunk?”

 

“No, but I’m about to be.”  He smiled, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

 

Harry gaped at him, his pulse pushing rapidly against his throat, his mouth dry.  This wasn’t how he’d been expecting his night to go.

 

“Put the cloak over us, will you?”

 

Against his better judgment, Harry pulled the cloak from his pocket, draping it over the both of them -- the touch of the velvet fabric against skin sending shivers down his spine.

 

“Mmmm, that’s better,” Draco nearly purred -- his hands cold as ice.  “Now, I brought us a present from the kitchens.”

 

Harry watched as Draco pulled two vials of Firewhiskey from his trouser pocket, and felt Draco’s cold hands against his as he placed a vial in Harry’s palm.

 

“Drink up.”

 

Draco popped open the vial, tipping his head back.  Harry watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed -- adam’s apple bobbing against his skin.  A moment later, a whispered _Silencio_ tumbled from his lips.

 

He looked at Harry expectantly.  “Well?”

 

Harry pulled the cork from the vial with his teeth, devouring its contents, half-aware that Draco had just called him a heathen under his breath.

 

“Bloody hell, that burns!” Harry exclaimed through fits of coughs.

 

Draco let out a full-bodied laugh, his frame shaking as he pulled Harry down into the snow, tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes.

 

Harry punched Draco’s forearm, blush coloring his cheeks and neck.

 

“All right, you’ve had your laugh, but it wasn’t that funny, Malfoy.”

 

Draco opened his eyes then, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“Oh, Potter,” he breathed, as he leaned forward to kiss him.

 

As soon as Draco’s lips touched his, Harry came alive.  He pushed himself into Draco, all weight and yearning for something he’d no clue he needed.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered with clipped breaths, between kisses and awkward caresses, heavy with inexperience and jagged nails from nervous biting.

 

Hearing his name fall from Harry’s lips made him pull away.  Draco wanted this for them, burned for it, even, but not here.  Not yet.

 

Harry looked completely puzzled and … ashamed.  Draco touched his cheek, trailing his fingers down  Harry’s face before lightly brushing his lips.

 

**\---**

 

“Let’s go, Harry,” Draco whispered, tenderness coloring his tone.  He pulled Harry up and led him back toward the castle entrance.

 

“Draco, what --” Harry started before he realized that Draco had, in fact, called him Harry, and they’d stopped walking.

 

The Great Hall was empty.  How long had they been outside?  It felt like a lifetime.  Harry had to learn a looping spell -- those quiet, forbidden moments were too good not to remember.

 

Before he could ask any more questions, Draco pulled him to the center of the ballroom floor, flush against his body.

 

“Take my waist, Harry.” Draco urged.  Somehow -- perhaps from the humiliation of earlier, or the fact that now, he actually found himself giving a damn -- Harry knew exactly what to do.  His fingers gripped Draco’s waist lightly, but with enough intent as if he was laying claim.  Draco whispered an unintelligible incantation, as soft, sweet melodies filled the room, echoing in Harry’s ears, vibrating his bones, repairing disappointments with thick golden-haired tones like honey.

 

Draco led them in smooth half-turns across the floor.  Harry felt like he was floating.  He smiled and met Draco’s eyes.  Draco’s lips turned upward, his eyes sparkled.  He was the most captivating person Harry had ever seen.  How had he never noticed before?

 

He wondered, in those moments, if he and Draco looked like his mother and father, twirling by the fountain in the photograph -- as if they could float up into the atmosphere, weightless, together.

 

Completely breathless, Harry buried his face into the crook of Draco’s shoulder.  Draco threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair, allowing time for his own breathing to even out.

 

“Now that,” Draco spoke, between breaths “was a proper dance, Harry.”

 

“Right, Draco.” Harry mouthed against Draco’s neck, kissing patches of skin.

 

**\---**

 

Draco and Harry stumbled down to the Slytherin common room sometime during the early morning.  The air was patchy and damp, the sounds of pipes dripping water serenaded them on their drunken walk.

 

“God,” Harry started, “it’s depressing down here.  How do you stand it?”

 

“I’ve never known different.  I’m not a savior, remember?”

 

Harry stopped walking and turned toward Draco, lifting a hand to touch his face.

 

“Don’t talk like that, Draco.  It’s unbecoming.”

 

“Now you sound like my father.  Just shut up, Harry.”

 

“Make me,” Harry whispered.

 

He knew it was a weak comeback, but the Slytherin tactic seemed to work, because no sooner than the words tumbled from his lips, Draco caught them, pushing his weight into Harry, tongue working him open, a hand snaked around the back of his neck, massaging the tender piece of skin, kneading out the knots, until Harry fell against him, loose, pliant, panting.

 

The space between them was too much and not enough.  Harry needed to regain his control, but he lost all sense of being the further Draco plunged into him, laying claim to his body, to him.  Draco felt like the tide, unrelenting, a constant rhythmic push and pull -- like Harry could say the wrong thing and Draco would coil in on himself and he’d never be able to whisper, plead or kiss Draco out of it.  He was all-consuming -- and Harry was terrified.

 

Harry pulled back, his eyes boring into Draco’s, both of their pupils blown wide, beginning their retreat from the clouds.

 

“Okay,” Harry confessed, swallowing.  “That was … intense.”

 

“Always the tone of surprise.”

 

“Draco,” Harry sighed, closing his eyes, “what is this?” his index finger motioning between the two of them.

 

Draco stared at Harry as if he was trying to find a way out, to pull free of Harry’s clutches.  But all he wanted to do was fall.  To take that step and burst into flames or shatter against the cobblestone floor.

 

A shaky breath escaped Draco’s lips before he reached out and touched Harry’s chest.

 

“I can’t be sure,” Draco began, quietly, “but it’ll change us both.”  He dropped his gaze and withdrew his hand.  Harry felt suddenly hollow.

 

Draco pulled the cloak off of his body, stepping out of their blissful cocoon, before turning to walk away.

 

The cloak fell softly against the cobblestone floor as Harry reached for Draco’s wrist.

 

“Change is good, Draco,” Harry whispered, a silent plea for him to stay.

 

Draco looked back at Harry, keeping the distance between them.

 

“Possibly,” Draco muttered, barely pulling for release against Harry’s grasp.  “Goodnight, Harry.”

 

Harry stood, a chill settling into his bones as he watched Draco walk away.

 

**\---**

 

Christmas hols approached quickly after Harry and Draco’s half-drunken evening together.  Harry kept his distance, as did Draco.

 

**\---**

 

Sirius greeted Harry with a warm embrace as he opened the door to 12 Grimmauld Place.

 

“Harry, my boy!  It’s great to see you.”

 

Harry nodded, smiling into the fabric of Sirius’s coat.  He smelled vaguely familiar -- of cinnamon, clove, and citrus.  Sharp, warm, like something Harry could drown in.

 

Eventually, after a cup of hot cider, Sirius showed Harry to his room.

 

Harry collapsed on the bed with a sigh.  He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed -- full, deep, alive.

 

He opened the bedside drawer and found several pieces of blank parchment and a charcoal gray quill.  Sleep eluded him, so he wrote.

 

_“Draco --_

 

_I hope this finds you well._

 

_I’m staying with Sirius at 12 Grimmauld Place this year._

 

_It’s no Hogwarts, of course, but he’s family._

 

_Remember, some changes can be good._

 

_Happy Hols,_

 

_Harry”_

 

As soon as he sent Hedwig with the letter, regret and fear crippled him -- worse than a _petrificus_ _totalus_.  He buried himself under the bedcovers until Sirius called him down for dinner.

 

**\---**

 

“So, Harry,” Sirius began, “how was the Yule Ball?”

 

Harry swallowed thickly, nearly dropping his fork.

 

“Erm, alright, I suppose.”

 

Sirius studied Harry quizzically.

 

“What happened, my boy?”

 

“That’s just it,” Harry sighed, picking up his napkin from the table, “it was everything and nothing all at once.  I felt -- alive, happy, for a few brief moments.  Then, everything vanished.”

 

“Ah,” Sirius smiled, “Who is she?”

 

Harry nearly choked.

 

“Oh, um, no one,” Harry muttered, clearing his throat “it’s not important anyway.”

 

Harry shook his head, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood before he asked to be excused.

 

**\---**

 

Draco was sick and tired of hearing his father drone on behind the closed doors of his office, all hushed whispers -- he was up to something, and it unsettled Draco.  He was tired of his mother’s _laissez-faire_ attitude, as she skimmed over a book in front of the hearth.  He felt as though he was suffocating -- he was losing Draco, and becoming more Malfoy by the minute.  He had to leave.

 

Once he was in the confines of his room, he grabbed his broom from where it lay, settled against the dresser.  He whispered a quick alohomora charm -- the window pulling free of its latch, swinging open -- before he was off, whizzing through the atmosphere, his white-blonde hair the lone bright spot against the backdrop of the ink-colored sky.

 

He received Harry’s owl earlier in the day, much to his surprise.  He wondered if Harry had been fighting sleep as he had -- the only relief coming when he closed his eyes, imagining the feel of Harry’s lips pressed against his.

 

Below him, Draco could see the outline of 12 Grimmauld Place, though he was uncertain as to which window led to Harry’s room.  He guessed it was the top one -- tucked away in the corner, closest to the clouds -- from the way that Harry loved talking about floating, free in the atmosphere -- where tiny particles were birthed and later cultivated in the large earth.

 

He swooped down and came to a slow stop, an alohomora charm falling from his lips once more.  The lock turned, the lever released -- Draco cracked the window and flew silently inside.  Harry’s shoulder blades were illuminated by moonlight, the dips and curves so perfectly placed, like a god in an oil painting.  Draco knew Quidditch provided muscles with some definition, but Harry’s expanse of skin was almost other-worldly -- the lines of his body were jagged, curvy, rough and imperfect, but Draco had never seen anyone more beautiful.  He was so caught up in staring at Harry that he forgot he was still holding his broom, and, as he turned, the broom came with him, shattering a section of the windowpane, causing Harry to rise with a start.

 

“What …” Harry breathed, his eyes wild and alive, “in god’s name was that?”

 

He reached for his glasses on the bedside table.  Draco was standing right in front of him, mouth nearly agape, a red flush tinting his face and neck.

 

“Draco?”

 

God, Draco missed the way his name sounded tumbling from Harry’s lips.  It reminded him of the finest Belgian chocolates he begged his mother for when he was a boy -- sweet, decadent, intricate.

 

“Mmm, Harry, s’me.”

 

Harry flung the covers off of his body, stalking over to Draco with intent.

 

“Why are you here?”  Harry demanded, grabbing a fistful of Draco’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

 

“I received your owl,” Draco whispered, breathless, _“obviously.”_

 

“Do you know,” Harry breathed, his voice pulled tight, thin, “that you are completely insufferable?”

 

“Harry,” Draco shook his head, leaning into Harry’s body.  “Do shut up.  I’d really like to kiss you now.”

 

He’d never admit it, but kissing Harry was like breathing -- easy, automatic, life-giving.

 

Eventually, the sun stretched and cried as it rose, creating shadows of their skin against the sheets, warmth journeying through their bodies, rejuvenating their bones.  Harry sniffled, wiping the sleep from his eyes before placing his lips against Draco’s shoulder blade, their legs tangled together, shadows of limbs underneath black sheets.


End file.
